Chasing the Pride of Alessi

| •Marin• |

"Mrs. Vane, did you know your husband has a bastard?"

The question hit before I'd even fully stepped out of the car.

Reporters closed in from every direction, shoving microphones toward my face. Camera flashes burst one after another, turning the covered driveway entrance of the Vane Luxury Hotel into a wall of white light.

I swallowed hard, forcing my composure back into place.

"Is the child really Mr. Vane's?"

"Have you known about him all along?"

"No," I said, smoothing down my tailored dress as I stepped onto the pavement, keeping my voice perfectly steady. "Those rumors are completely untrue."

No one lowered their cameras.

I was used to it. Scandals had always followed Weston. There were secret affairs, whispers of hidden mistresses, and fake heirs. Every few months, another rumor resurfaced, trying to drag him down. But this story would fall apart like all the rest, because there was no bastard child in the shadows.

Only the child I was carrying.

Barely an hour earlier, I'd been lying in an examination room at St. Gabriel's Hospital.

The faint stickiness of the ultrasound gel still lingered against my skin. I could still hear the strong heartbeat that the doctor had smiled at before turning the screen toward me.

Healthy.

Growing.

Everything looked perfect.

My hand drifted to my clutch, feeling the hard, distinct edge of the ultrasound photo hidden inside.

After three long years of agonizing fertility treatments and two soul-crushing miscarriages, I had finally reached the other side.

Tonight was my birthday.

Tonight was supposed to become the happiest night of my life.

I was finally going to tell Weston we were having a baby.

Our marriage had begun as an arrangement between two families whose lives had been intertwined long before either Weston or I were born. Nearly half a decade later, we still shared the same house, living more like two people bound by duty than husband and wife.

Everyone called it a perfect union. Years ago, his father and mine had promised that one day the Vane and Alessi families would become one. After they died, Weston's grandfather, Alfred, insisted on honoring that promise. I'd spent every single day since wondering if a marriage built on someone else's promise could ever become one built on love.

Weston wasn't cruel.

He was simply... distant.

Most of our conversations revolved around schedules, meetings, and obligations.

Yet, I had spent the duration of our marriage collecting his rare, fleeting moments of softness like desperate treasures.

He remembered I preferred a light roast with a single splash of almond milk and half a spoonful of brown sugar. He noticed when I skipped breakfast. At suffocating galas, his hand would settle at the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd with an unspoken protectiveness.

Whenever someone dismissed me as "just Mrs. Vane," he corrected them before I ever had the chance.

Those moments were small.

Too small.

But I'd spent all this time convincing myself they meant something.

Maybe this baby would finally give us the family we'd never managed to build.

Maybe the distance between us would finally disappear.

"Mrs. Vane!" Another reporter pressed forward, snapping me back to reality. "We have photos of your husband at the airport yesterday, picking up a young boy and a mysterious woman!"

Yesterday.

My heart missed a beat. Weston hadn't come home last night, claiming he had an urgent Investor meeting.

Doubt crept in for a split second, but I quickly suppressed it. I couldn't lose control here, not in front of these cameras.

"There isn't," I answered, my tone hardening. "The same allegation has surfaced more than once this year!"

"And like every other rumor, it remains entirely unfounded."

Once Weston held our baby's picture in his hands tonight, all these rumors would die down for good.

Security finally shoved a path through the suffocating media trap.

The moment the towering glass doors shut behind me, the chaos melted away into the hum of soft string music and muted laughter.

I stepped into the elevator. Moments later, the doors opened onto the ballroom.

Crystal chandeliers bathed the room in golden light. White roses—my favorite—bloomed at every table.

My eyes drifted to the elaborate seating chart by the entrance. Weston had arranged it himself. I knew because the board members who constantly questioned my place in his life had been relegated to the far corners.

He hated planning events.

He once told me he'd rather spend twelve hours negotiating with hostile investors than decide where people should sit at dinner.

Yet he'd done this.

For me.

The knot in my stomach loosened slightly. A smile tugged at my lips.

Tonight really would be different.

I spotted Weston near the main stage.

Tailored black suit. Impeccable posture. Completely, effortlessly in control.

People naturally quieted around him.

He never demanded attention.

He simply commanded it.

My pulse quickened, a nervous, giddy flutter in my chest.

Just a few more minutes. I'd let him finish his welcome speech. Then, in the quiet of his private suite, I would place the ultrasound photo in his hand.

I imagined the surprise on his face.

Maybe he wouldn't smile.

Weston rarely smiled.

But perhaps his eyes would soften.

Perhaps he'd finally look at me as his wife instead of the woman Grandfather Alfred had placed beside him four years ago to honor an old promise.

As if sensing my gaze, Weston moved. But he didn't look at me. His eyes shifted toward the shadowed side of the stage.

I instinctively followed his line of sight.

A woman was standing there.

Elegant. Striking. Dark hair falling in soft waves over one shoulder. She looked unmistakably familiar, tugging at a memory I'd almost forgotten.

Serafina.

I'd met her only once, years before Weston and I married, during a summer gathering at Grandfather Alfred's estate. She'd been introduced as a family friend. After that, she disappeared from the estate, and Weston never mentioned her again.

And now she was standing here. But she wasn't alone.

A little boy stood beside her, clutching the silk of her dress. Four years old, maybe five.

As the boy took a step into the warm chandelier light, the air was forcibly dragged from my lungs.

His eyes.

An unmistakable emerald blue, cold as steel and the exact color of Weston's.

My hand flew to my stomach. The tiny life I'd carried here suddenly felt impossibly fragile.

Before my mind could process the horror, Weston stepped up to the podium.

The room fell into an expectant hush.

"Thank you all for joining us tonight," Weston began, his voice smooth, deep, and devoid of tremor. "There has been an overwhelming amount of speculation surrounding my personal life over the past year."

His sharp gaze swept across the room.

"I believe it is time to set the record straight."

A bold reporter near the back raised his voice. "Mr. Vane, is the boy yours?"

"Yes."

The answer dropped like a heavy blade.

No hesitation. No apology. No emotion.

My fingers tightened around my bag, crumpling the paper inside.

The crowd gasped and every eye in the room shifted to me, a sudden wave of frantic whispers rippling through the ballroom.

"This child is mine..." Weston continued, his tone as chillingly steady.

Then, his eyes lifted. They locked straight onto mine across the crowded room.

For one foolish, desperate heartbeat, my foolish heart screamed that this was a nightmare—that he was about to clarify, about to protect me, about to fix it.

"...and my wife's."

The world went violently silent.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move.

The cameras flashed so rapidly they blurred into a single, blinding light.

Through the chaos, Weston never broke eye contact. His emerald-blue eyes remained fixed on mine, shadowed, unreadable, and entirely empty of warmth, empty of guilt.

"So," he added, his tone giving no room for argument, "he is no bastard—he is the legitimate heir to Vane Enterprises."